


Home for the Holidays

by paroxferox



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon Lesbian Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Christmas Fluff, F/F, Food, Holidays, Lesbian Sex, M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, Nipple Licking, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9000925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paroxferox/pseuds/paroxferox
Summary: Will and Hannibal celebrate their first Christmas Eve together as lovers (it doesn't go as they planned). Margot and Alana have a difference of opinion as to the appropriateness of gifts for a five-year-old. A gift for Marsza.





	1. Graham-Lecter Holidays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cymbelines](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymbelines/gifts).



> Happy holidays!

“Are you sure you don’t want to come to mass with me?” Hannibal asks, and it’s obvious that he is very near to pleading.

He is dressed in a neat suit of deep emerald green, a boutonnier of pine and mistletoe berries pinned to his lapel. The warm light of the fire that Will has built on the hearth gives his skin a faintly unearthly golden glow. Will is struck for the umpteenth time by how _striking_ he is, the way he effortlessly commands any space that he occupies.

At first after the fall, when they were recuperating from their wounds in the tropical heat of some privately-owned Caribbean island, he thought he would get used to the tightness in his chest and thrum of desire that rises every time he looks at Hannibal for too long. Now, holed up as they are in a Swiss chalet for their second winter together, he has accepted it as ubiquitous, a byproduct of the depth and passion of their relationship.

“I need to prep the fish. Are you sure you don’t want to stay home with _me_?” he counters, tipping his chin to one side and exposing his throat in a way he knows Hannibal likes. Hannibal swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly above the impeccable Windsor knot of his tie, and Will knows he struck true. But Hannibal’s tone betrays none of that arousal as he straightens his cuffs and checks the pin on his boutonnier.

“I stay home with you every night, Will. Tonight, I am going into Lucerne, and I would deeply appreciate it if you were to come with me. The fish can wait; they will still be here when we return.”

Will weighs the possible rewards and drawbacks of attending a midnight Christmas church service with Hannibal Lecter. There are no rewards, really, except that Hannibal will be happy that Will is accompanying him to something he obviously considers important. The drawbacks…

Hannibal still collects news clippings of church collapses. If there is a God, Will wouldn’t put it past Him to give Hannibal the crowning jewel of his collection in response to his hubris. And out of all the unpleasant causes of death Will has anticipated in his time at Hannibal’s side, _irony_ is the one he most dislikes. “I...would prefer not to,” he answers slowly.

“Very well,” Hannibal says, disappointment evident in his tone and the curl of his lips as he turns away from Will. “I won’t force you to go, although I do wish you’d reconsider.”

“I’m not a very... _churchy_ person.”

“If you could do me a favor, while I am gone,” Hannibal continues smoothly, drawing alongside Will and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Since you’ve declined to attend mass with me, you might as well put yourself to use here and attend the rest of the dinner preparations, not just the fish. Most of it is straightforward. I’ve left dough for linzertorte in the refrigerator. If you could finish it for me, I would appreciate it. The instructions are on the counter, if you need them.”

“...you’re leaving me alone with your dinner prep? Including _baked goods_?” Will can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. Hannibal quirks a slight, fond smile over his shoulder as he crosses into the foyer.

“As long as you follow the instructions, there should be no issue. Everything else is self-contained, I believe. Check the recipe cards if you are concerned - they’re with the linzertorte instructions.” He plucks his coat off the hook, shrugging into it and securing the hood until there’s barely any face visible behind a ring of thick wolverine fur. Will smiles; like most predators, Hannibal is famously capable of shrugging off discomfort without showing sign of it...except when it comes to cold. Hannibal Lecter will endure a gunshot wound to the torso with barely the faintest flinch, but the first snowfall of the season sends him scrambling for scarf and mittens like a delicate flower.

“Are you sure you’re going to be warm enough out there?” He can’t suppress the gentle tease as he watches Hannibal meticulously cinching the wristband of his gloves. “It’s snowing. I hear it does that frequently in the Alps.”

“There’s no need to make fun,” Hannibal answers, muffled from the depths of the parka. He throws open the door, stepping back so Will is caught full-force in a gust of cold air that brings a cloud of ice crystals with it. Will grimaces, and Hannibal laughs softly. His eyes, the only part of his face not obscured by fur, crinkle at the corners - a fond smile. “So long as the snow stays mild tonight, there’s no reason I should be gone for more than four hours.”

“Call me if something comes up. I’ll be waiting.”

“Of course, Will. Be well. I’ll see you soon.”

“Have fun.”

“I love you.”

Before Will can reply, Hannibal has stepped through the door and pulled it shut behind him, leaving Will alone in the stillness of the chalet, turning the words over in his head and wondering if Hannibal will _ever_ stay in one place long enough for Will to echo them back.

The silence of the chalet settles uncomfortably on him whenever he’s alone, and not for the first time he mutely resents the fact that Hannibal has not yet agreed to getting a dog. ( _We move too much, Will_ , he says. _Quarantine law is egregious. When we are settled permanently, you may rescue dogs as you please - within reason._ ) The fireplace crackles behind him, resolutely dispelling the last of the outside chill, and Will turns to watch it in a quiet that stretches tenser and tenser, a thread of anxious longing that transfixes him where he stands. Eventually, a log settles and throws up sparks, and the spell breaks. Will turns from the fire, shakes himself slightly, and heads into the kitchen to see what has been left for him.

Water for potatoes simmers gently on a back burner and a roasted tomato soup that Hannibal fussed over most of the afternoon cools beside it. The entree is salt-baked trout, a sophisticated preparation that Will nonetheless feels entirely confident pulling off himself. Overall, it’s subdued for a holiday meal of Hannibal’s oversight. They argued for two weeks over whether Christmas Eve was to be a quiet affair or a full _revellion_ or _vigilia_. Will won, but only by acceding complete control of Christmas Day to Hannibal’s opulent sensibilities (a five-pound venison saddle from a deer Will shot earlier in the year thaws in the fridge even now, and Will is deeply concerned that it will still be frozen solid tomorrow).

He pauses to check the small stack of cards Hannibal left for him, and is unsurprised to end up disappointed. Hannibal’s recipes are hardly what Will would consider _thorough_ \- barely more than a list of ingredients and the kind of vague shorthand that is only intelligible to the person who wrote it. Will reads each of them over three times before setting them down in a heap, throwing up his hands and turning his attention to the linzertorte. That recipe, at least, is printed in its entirety - for all that Hannibal has tried to hide his clumsiness with desserts, Will can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him _bake_. The fact that he’s trying now is more an indication of his intent to impress Will than any real desire to do it.

Will, on the other hand, finds the prospect of rolling out dough soothing. He’s never been much of a baker on his own, but any chance to work with his hands is a good one.

He reads the recipe from start to finish to make sure he’s doing everything in the right order, then goes hunting for the pan. Hannibal has a dozen tart pans and pie tins under the oven - odd, for a man who avoids pastry whenever he can, but what is Hannibal if not perpetually unexpected. It’s a mark of trust that Hannibal is asking him to complete the meal; even during his absurd dinner parties, Hannibal’s sous chefs are barely allowed to touch the food. He finds the fluted tart pan the recipe recommends and sets the oven to preheat.

It’s only two steps to the refrigerator; from what little Will gathered of the brusque French Hannibal exchanged with the realtor who showed them the property, the layout of the kitchen was of the utmost importance to him. Will can appreciate that now. He opens the fridge, retrieves both rounds of dough, and finds his attention caught by a small red string bag. His heart jumps for a moment, and he pulls it out to better confirm its contents.

A dozen fresh oysters. Will smiles, mouthing a silent “ _thank you_ ” to Hannibal. He had mentioned oyster dressing only once in the course of planning their first Christmas menu together, scarcely daring to hope that Hannibal would assent to finding space in his egregious menus for something so... _pedestrian_. Yet none of the recipe cards on the counter mention oysters at all. It’s an immensely thoughtful gesture on Hannibal’s part, one that Will isn’t entirely sure how to repay. He replaces the bag and turns his focus back to pastry.

The tart dough smooths and spreads under his hands as he mentally goes over the old oyster dressing recipe he picked up from a family friend while he was still working in Louisiana. No cornbread in the house, but there’s half a loaf of stale _zopf_ in the breadbox that Will’s certain Hannibal won’t mind if he uses in its place. Hannibal keeps bread scraps in the freezer - Will has been continually surprised by his preference not to let food go to waste since they’ve run off together - and between that and the _zopf_ there should be more than enough to make dressing for two people.

His hands still when the dough is an even thickness, pushed partway up the sides of the tart. Into the oven it goes, a timer set for twenty-five minutes, and Will begins a hunt for an oyster knife.

The kitchen, small as it is, is laid out to Hannibal’s preferences, which are governed by a logic Will can never entirely follow. He tamps down a twinge of homesickness for the Wolf Trap farmhouse as he checks a drawer by the stove and comes up empty-handed, hunting through drawer after drawer until he finds the offending utensil stowed neatly with the cleaver and the steel mesh glove Hannibal sometimes wears when he’s doing intense butchery. Will picks up the glove, turning it over a few times before slipping it on and curling his hand into a fist, unfamiliar with the heavy-cold slip of metal over his skin. Still, better his hand be protected than Hannibal come home to find him bleeding out from a self-inflicted oyster knife wound.

Sufficiently armed and armored, he retrieves the oysters and sets to work. The rhythm of shucking comes back to him in an instant, muscle memory trained by a lifetime on the Gulf and the Chesapeake Bay neatly gutting all twelve shells in a scant few minutes. For a moment, he can almost taste the honeysuckle-laden heat of a Mid-Atlantic summer as he tips the last oyster into the bowl. The ache of homesickness wells harder in his gut, and Will separates meat from liquor in somber silence.

Switzerland does not feel like home any more than the Caribbean did. Will hopes he’ll be able to return someday. He hopes his dogs are doing well at Alana’s.

He hopes a lot of things, but hope doesn’t erase his status as America’s Most Wanted, or Hannibal’s as an international criminal. They’ll go wherever they go. They don’t have a choice. Switzerland is at least more comfortable to Will than the stifling tropical heat was. The chalet is tucked away deep enough in the woods that it feels secluded even when the trees are bare, modern on the inside in spite of its antiquated exterior and remote location. The landlord is stern and German, but kind-eyed and fond of fishing and hunting. Will has seen him only twice: once when they moved in, and again later when he took his new flies out to the stream behind the property to test them and caught him doing exactly the same.

It is a place that could feel like home, perhaps, with time. In truth, it feels a bit like Molly’s house in Maine - another sour memory (he hopes Walter is doing well and finally got that fishing rod he asked for) that sticks in his throat until he pours himself a finger of whiskey to help it go down.

He finishes the oyster dressing in somber silence and pushes it into the oven just as the timer goes off for the linzertorte. The smell of hazelnuts and almonds fills the kitchen, and as Will sets the tart pan on top of the stove and ladles a layer of thick raspberry-currant preserves into it, he catches himself feeling suddenly connected to Hannibal, a kinship of pride and pleasure at _creating_ something and seeing it come together in a way that can be shared with another person. He glances at the clock. Hannibal will have just reached Lucerne, he thinks, and mass will begin in just a few minutes. He wills time to go faster.

The top layer of dough on the tart gives him a bit of trouble; Will is not naturally inclined to pastry-cheffing, and the elaborate cross-hatch pattern suggested by the recipe is entirely out of his league. He settles instead for a simple lattice, cutting each piece with meticulous care and draping it across in a careful checkerboard. The edges crimp easily under even gentle pressure, making it look far nicer than Will intended, and he leaves it on the stove while he waits for the dressing to bake.

Another two fingers of whiskey, and he leaves the kitchen and the temptation to fidget with it, sitting down in front of the fire and feeding it kindling. Without Hannibal, the house feels yawningly empty. Settling into the worn leather armchair that Hannibal only _barely_ tolerated entering his home, he closes his eyes and tips his head back, seeking his presence in the rooms they share in their memories.

They visited the cathedral in Lucerne together just once, when they first took up residence in the chalet. It hadn’t quite started snowing yet, but the air was chill and frost rimed the grass each morning. Hannibal had lit a candle without explaining his motives to Will, and Will had excused himself before the stifling smell of incense could give him a migraine. But he sees the cathedral clearly nonetheless: white pillars and vaulted ceilings, a painting of Christ behind a lively-painted crucifix. He imagines it would be darker at midnight mass, no light filtering through the tall windows. Dark save for candles, perhaps - Will is not Catholic, but he understands Hannibal’s fondness for tradition and theatrics.

The pew in which he sits is empty until he allows others into his space. Hannibal is the first, and he is easy: his vibrant suit, the candlelight making his cheeks hollower than ever, eyes upturned in a private mockery of worship. The rest of the church is shapes, faces in the dark, whispering their own prayers. He doesn’t care about them, just about the line of Hannibal’s body against his and the holiness of a space occupied only by them.

Once, Will’s place for contemplation would have been the quiet of the stream. Now, it is the humming silence of a church, thigh pressed tight to Hannibal’s, the taste of incense thick on the air.

Dream or not, the construct has the weight that Will has given it. They kiss.

The oven beeps and his repose is over. _Good-bye_ , he whispers to the construct of Hannibal in his mind, and he surfaces from the waking dream reluctantly, feeling the weight of the memory-palace Hannibal’s disappointment as an echo of his own. He checks the clock, sighs again, and heaves himself out of the chair and back into the kitchen.

The dressing is done, though slightly browner than Hannibal himself likely would have baked it. In goes the tart once again, and with one dish entirely out of the way, Will can breathe and set to work on the fish. The stream on their property is fast enough that he’s found easy targets even in winter, and the trout he nestled just outside the kitchen door, snow keeping them cooler than the refrigerator would, are barely a few hours old. The rime of ice on their scales begins to melt as soon as they catch the heat from the kitchen.

Working with fish feels more natural than any of the rest of Hannibal’s fussy holiday dishes (he puts potatoes in to cook and moves the tomato soup to the fridge), and as Will cleans and scrapes, he can almost allow himself to slip back into his kitchen at Wolf Trap. He indulges the temptation briefly, letting himself fall into the rhythm of his old life, though it feels oddly false beneath his hands as he spreads a thick layer of salt on a baking sheet and sets the trout atop it. The kitchen is not his and the method of cooking is not his - the illusion slips away from him like the fish he packs moistened salt over.

Hannibal has changed him, for better or worse.

Overbaked fish is a cardinal sin, so Will sets them aside to chill while he waits for the linzertorte to finish. He fusses with Hannibal’s recipe cards, checks the potato salad again, and makes a dressing for it while he waits for the potatoes to boil.

The timer chimes, and he removes the tart from the oven. It is beautiful.

Mass should be getting out soon. Will smiles at the clock.

An hour left.

Will dusts the linzertorte with powdered sugar and dresses the potatoes. Everything done but the fish, now.

The hour passes.

No sign of Hannibal. Will checks the snowfall, grimaces, and pours himself two more fingers of whiskey. He reminds himself that Hannibal is an adult, capable of making his own choices and handling himself in a bad situation. A more treacherous part of Will reminds him that Hannibal is impulsive and reckless.

An hour late.

No sign of Hannibal. Will checks the news on Hannibal’s tablet and sees nothing about an internationally-hunted serial killer being apprehended. He puts the potato salad and oyster dressing in the refrigerator.

Two hours late.

Will is afraid.

He has lost count by now of the whiskey he’s drunk - he’s more unsteady on his feet than he intended to be should it come to a point where he needs to defend himself. English-language news has been silent on arrests in Lucerne, but Will doesn’t speak German or French enough to check the news thoroughly.

The snow is coming down in sheets, thick enough that when he sees headlights in the driveway, he can’t identify the car they belong to.

The crunch of tires on the gravel drive shivers through his arms, and he’s on his feet in the kitchen without thinking, one of Hannibal’s carving knives in his hand. He meets the door with his shoulders squared, feet apart, in the best fighting stance his slightly-shaky nerves will allow.

The door opens. He surges forward.

“Will, it’s me!”

Will pulls up short from the lunge with a sigh of relief that is truthfully more of a sob. The knife clatters from his hand, and Hannibal watches it fall to the stone tile of the foyer, a suppressed wince twitching at the corners of his mouth and between his brows. There’s no guarantee he didn’t just ruin it completely.

Will doesn’t care.

“ _Where were you?_ ”

“I’m sorry I’m late.”

"You should have been back two hours ago!” Will shouts, uncaring how frantic he sounds. “I thought you’d been _arrested_! I was getting ready to spend my Christmas in _Swiss prison_!”

Hannibal is unfazed, sparing barely a snort for the idea that he could possibly be careless enough to be arrested on Christmas Eve. "The good news," he continues calmly, kicking the snow from his boots and dropping the package onto the foyer table with a wet _thud_ , "is that we don’t need to worry about the venison thawing in time after all."

"...Hannibal. You _didn't_."

"Let me just hang my coat and I'll dress this. I’d like to marinade it in garlic and balsamic tonight. Is the large bowl with the cover clean?"

"Hannibal, you went to _church_."

"And his cell phone rang during the consecration of the Eucharist, Will, it would have been irreligious of me not to."

“ _Hannibal!_ ”

For a tense moment, Hannibal looks prepared to argue. Then he sighs, stripping off his coat and hanging it to drip from the door. “I am sorry I didn’t call, Will,” he says softly. Will scowls, taking a half-step back as Hannibal reaches for him.

“I thought you were _dead_ , or worse!”

“I know. I...did not think. It was impulsive of me. I should have done better.”

The remorse in his voice strikes Will with its authenticity, and he feels himself soften. “...you should have,” he says, the words coming petulant and bitter from his mouth. Hannibal’s soft openness twitches into a smile.

“I hope you did not pine too much while I was gone.”

“Only enough,” Will answers almost mechanically, and laughs at himself. “Damn, now you’ve gotten me all turned around. I was _mad_ at you.”

“I’m glad you’re not anymore,” Hannibal responds, almost a question.

“I’m not,” Will admits. “Everything got cold while you were gone, though.”

“Well.” Hannibal smiles. “That’s simple enough. We reheat it. The oven is still on, I assume.”

“Mostly because I forgot to turn it off...but yes.”

“Then that’s that.” Hannibal smiles. “I will dress this roast, we can reheat food, and you and I can have a late dinner.”

“ _Very_ late,” Will grumbles, and Hannibal laughs.

“Very late,” he agrees, and kisses Will.

They stay that way for a moment, Will melting into Hannibal, and when they part again, Will has all but forgotten that he was ever angry. He disentangles from Hannibal’s arms and picks up the knife he had dropped, inspecting the blade for damage. It looks better than it has a right to - a small Christmas miracle.

A thought dawns on him, now that Hannibal is back and looking at him with unbridled fondness. “There was something I wanted to say to you before you left.”

“Something that has nothing to do with the knife, I hope,” Hannibal teases softly. Will laughs.

“No. You just...left before I could say it.”

“And what’s that?” Hannibal asks.

“I love you, too,” Will says.

Hannibal’s silence is stunned. Will slips into the church beside him again, wondering whether he should have said something far earlier.

He’s shaken from the reverie by Hannibal’s mouth on his, Hannibal’s hands on his waist, Hannibal’s body pressed against the length of him.

They break apart only to breathe, and Hannibal looks stunned giddy, eyes shining as he smiles at Will.

“That’s the finest gift you could give me, Will. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”


	2. Verger-Bloom Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margot and Alana celebrate Christmas Eve...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so, so sorry this took a year. It's been...a hard twelve months for me, but I hope this chapter makes up for the glaring mistake I made by not finishing it sooner! Merry Christmas, Marsza!

“ _Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse._ ”

Morgan bounces between Alana and Margot, unable to sit still as he fidgets with excitement, eyes fixed on the small collection of festively-wrapped gifts under the opulently-decorated tree. Alana touches his shoulder lightly, a gentle squeeze that reminds him to be present with them. He settles a little bit, leaning hard against Alana’s side and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Did you hear that, Morgan?” Margot asks, a soft laugh under her words. “Everyone is quiet the night before Christmas, no matter how excited they are.”

“I know, but -” Morgan lets go of Alana and bounces again, reaching out and taking Margot’s sleeve, eyes bright as he leans close to her and conspiratorially whispers, “it’s _Christmas_.”

“Applesauce is being quiet,” Margot points out, and at hearing her name, Applesauce’s muzzle emerges from the tight ball into which she has curled herself. Her ears prick forward for a moment, but then she flops sideways on her bed with a huff and a lazy thump of her tail.

“Applesauce is a _dog_ ,” Morgan admonishes. “I’m a _boy_!”

“Little boys have to be quiet the night before Christmas, too, or Christmas Morning might never come.” Alana ruffles his hair, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “You have to be asleep so you can wake up on Christmas.”

“Nooooooooooo.” Morgan flops sideways, head landing squarely in Alana’s lap, and kicks his feet in mock annoyance. “Christmas should come _now_.”

“Remember how we talked about being patient, Morgan?” Alana strokes Morgan’s hair back from his forehead, smiling down at him as he stares up at her with enormous eyes. “About how sometimes you have to wait for something, but that waiting can be good?”

“Yes, but not Christmas.”

Margot snorts, and Alana flicks her foot sideways, kicking her in the ankle. _Don’t encourage him_ , she mouths. “Christmas will only come if you’re patient.”

Morgan groans, sitting back up and looking imploringly at Margot.

“Mommy’s right,” Margot says smoothly, stepping into the role of _the reassuring, reasonable mom_ as easily as she does everything else. “If you don’t go to sleep, Santa can’t come.”

Alana can feel her mouth pulling thin; she and Margot disagree on the ethics of perpetuating the Santa fantasy, but Alana isn’t going to die on that hill tonight. And besides that, Margot’s quip settles Morgan better than anything Alana has said all night.

“Okaaaaaaaay.” He draws out the syllable but settles down, tucking himself against Margot’s side. “I’ll be quiet.”

“There’s my boy,” Margot says, scruffing fingers through Morgan’s hair and reorienting the book on her lap. “Now then, I’m going to finish this, and then we’ll go to bed, right?”

“Okay.”

“Good. _Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care in hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there._ ”

The lilt of the words in Margot’s soft voice lulls into a soft, musical drone that makes Alana drowsy. She casts a longing glance toward the slow-cooker in the corner, where wine has been simmering with mulling spices for the past three hours. In a perfect world, Morgan would have gone to bed the first time they put him down, and she would be in bed after two cups of mulled wine, presents wrapped and Margot slipping a hand under her nightshirt.

 _Someday_ they’d be able to steal more than a few minutes of privacy before passing out exhausted at the end of a long day of child-wrangling.

Morgan is asleep by the time Margot finishes the story, and Alana helps scoop him into her arms. They exchange an intense look as they both stand, not breaking eye-contact as they walk him upstairs into his bedroom and settle him into his bed. He stays asleep while they tuck him in, and as they both straighten up and back cautiously away from the bed, Alana exhales in a sigh of relief.

Morgan stirs.

Beside Alana, Margot’s mouth forms a silent _damn_.

“Wait, don’t go yet!” Morgan tries his best plaintive voice and Alana stops a few steps from the door.

“What is it, darling?”

“I need a kiss! Because it’s Christmas!”

“You’re stalling.” But Alana returns to Morgan’s bedside and complies to the tiny tyrant’s demands, kissing Morgan on both cheeks and his forehead and stepping back so Margot can do the same.

“Kiss for Bunny, too,” Morgan commands, lifting the threadbare stuffed rabbit up to Margot’s face. Margot obligingly kisses it on the muzzle. “Mommy, you too!”

“All right, but after this, you go to bed and you stay until the morning. You can play quietly if you want to, but you have to stay in your bedroom until Mama and I come to get you. Do we have a deal?” Alana keeps her stern face on as she leans over the bed and makes eye-contact with Morgan.

He looks at her with an expression of utmost calculation, obviously going over any further options he can have to push bedtime back further, or convince them to let him unwrap his presents early. A few seconds in, Alana can see that he’s run out of possible courses of action. He huffs. “...okay.”

“Then we have a deal.” Alana leans in and kisses Bunny gently between the ears, strokes Morgan’s face, and then straightens up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, darling.”

“Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas, love. Good night.”

The rhythm of Christmas hasn’t changed as much since Hannibal and Will’s escape and presumed demise as Alana had thought it would. It’s amazing how quickly the concern fades from rabbit-anxious, checking over her shoulder at every step, consulting with Jack and the agents he’s assigned to her family near-hourly, to a low thrum that only comes back in the loneliest dark, as commonplace as the other fears that plague women walking alone at night.

The house is bright with lights and garland, fragrant with spruce boughs and the warm scent of the clove-studded oranges Margot and Morgan made a few days back and hung in the kitchen and over the fireplace. There are still a handful of gifts left to wrap, mostly books and some small trinkets better-suited to stockings than placed under the tree. Alana fans them across the table before she sinks back down on the couch and heaves a sigh of relief. Alone at last.

“He’s really growing up,” Margot says as she ladles mulled wine into mugs.

“He is,” Alana says, biting back a psych-typical remark about his progress according to standard child development milestones. It doesn’t matter where he is in comparison to other children, he’s _theirs_ and that’s all that matters.

“He’s come so far just this past year,” Margot continues, approaching the couch with the exaggeratedly-light step of someone who has overfilled the mugs and is trying desperately not to spill them. “I can’t wait to see what he’s like this time next year.”

Alana can hear the suggestion in the empty space of Margot’s words. She sighs; it’s not the first time they’ve had this argument. “You’re not getting him a pony next year,” she says levelly.

“He’ll be five. It’s a good age for a first pony.”

“It’s excessive. It’s _dangerous_.”

“We’re Vergers, darling. Excess and danger are part and parcel.” Margot passes Alana a mug as she settles onto the couch beside her. Alana reaches out and squeezes her thigh, just behind the knee.

“Maybe a little less danger for a year or two, hmm? I think we’ve had plenty of that already.” She sips from her mug; the wine is sweeter than she anticipated, redolent with honey and orange atop the spiced-cinnamon scent. Maybe the extra two hours in the slow-cooker was good for it, after all.

“Oh, but this isn’t that kind of danger,” Margot protests between quick swallows of her own wine. “It’s a _small_ danger. The kind I know how to handle. Just think of it - a little Shetland pony, with a long mane that Morgan could braid...you like Eridanus! Ponies are even cuter.”

“Eridanus is a show horse and you are an _adult_. Maybe when he’s a little older.”

Margot’s mouth turns down in a moue of disappointment, but instead of continuing to argue, she huffs and slings her legs over Alana’s lap. Alana responds mechanically, squeezing up her calf in a rhythmic massage. Apparently sufficiently rested to want attention, Applesauce gets to her feet and trots over to the couch, resting her muzzle over Margot’s shin in the direct path of Alana’s hand. Alana allows her to steal her attention, scratching her cheeks and running her thumb over the backs of her ears until they’re both very nearly lulled to sleep.

“Don’t fall asleep yet,” Margot says, wry and indulgent. “We still have to finish presents. Is this all we have left to wrap?” She gestures to the pile Alana has left on the table.

“Mmhmm. There are a few presents in the closet to put out under the tree, but I wrapped those last week.”

“I like it when you’re type-A like that. It makes everything easier.” Margot flashes her teeth in a bright, sweet smile. Alana resists the urge to pick apart the concept of _personality typing_ and kisses her instead.

“If we get this all done, we can put out the gifts before we wake Morgan tomorrow and get to bed...almost on time.”

“Merry Christmas to us. Applesauce, go lay down.”

Free from Applesauce’s well-meaning, furry presence, Alana drains her mug in three long pulls, savoring the warmth of the wine in her throat. Before Margot, before Will and Hannibal went mad and ran off together, she was never a wine drinker. Now, she can appreciate the spiced warmth of the honey-sweetened red in her cup, the way it sits and spreads in her chest as she leans forward over Margot’s legs to set down her cup and pick up the books. Margot’s free hand catches in Alana’s hair, tugging through a tangle as she wraps, the gentle pressure on her scalp and the heat of the room wrapping her in a sleepy-hot cocoon of holiday affection.

It doesn’t abate as she and Margot untangle, stand up, arrange the rest of the gifts under the tree, and stumble to bed unsteady half from the wine and half from weariness. It has been a hectic holiday season - a good one, but a hectic one.

The bed is rumpled, unmade that morning in the rush to finish Christmas Eve preparations. Alana is grateful for it; she can toss off her clothes and fall into bed without thinking. Pulling the blankets up to her nose, she closes her eyes, letting the heaviness in her limbs render her immobile as Margot falls into bed beside her.

“Dear,” Margot says a moment later, lips on the back of Alana’s neck. “Do you want to celebrate Christmas Eve?”

“That depends on how much sleep you want to get,” Alana answers, rolling over so she can face Margot. In the dim glow of the red-tinged salt lamp Margot set up in the corner of the room, the shadows of her eyes look too deep, making her oddly ethereal. Alana smiles.

“You know,” Margot murmurs, glancing at the clock. “We could probably sleep in til seven or eight if we really tried.”

Alana snorts. “He’ll be up by six, at the latest. By eight he’ll be a terror.”

“Seven, then?”

“ _Maybe_.”

“I don’t mind missing some sleep for this, either way.”

“Good.” Margot smiles, reaching out and sliding her hand up Alana’s nightshirt, smoothing up her stomach to her breasts. Alana sighs and closes her eyes, relaxing into Margot’s deft touch, the graze of her short, neatly-groomed nails over the skin on her chest.

Margot’s palm grazes over one of her nipples, gentle stimulation that makes Alana arch into her, looking for something harder. Margot laughs and presses down a little, digging her nails into the skin on Alana’s breast until her nails are leaving tiny crescent-moon marks and Alana’s breath comes only in a shuddering sigh.

She reaches out, wrapping an arm around Margot, pulling her close until they’re pressed together, breasts against breasts with only Margot’s hand between them. They kiss, and Margot tastes like sweetened wine. She slides a knee between Alana’s legs until her thigh presses against Alana’s crotch. They stay like that for a moment, kissing, hands wandering aimless (Margot is still palming Alana’s breast) until they’re both panting and the room feels too hot.

Alana is wearing a simple cotton shirt and pajama shorts; Margot is in underwear and a soft camisole. It’s too much clothing. She lets Margot pull the shirt up until it’s tight under her armpits, giving her access to Alana’s nipples when she rolls her over and kisses down her chest. Flat on her back with the use of both hands again, Alana catches the hem of Margot’s shirt and pulls it up over her head. Margot makes a muffled noise of protest as Alana momentarily traps her head and arms, but it only takes her a moment to disentangle before the shirt is free in Alana’s hands and Margot’s mouth is on her skin again.

She kisses Alana’s body as desperately as she did the first time they did this, using her teeth and tongue liberally, sucking soft red marks across Alana’s chest and tonguing over her nipples until they feel unbearably tight. Alana arches against her, one hand buried in her hair, the other smoothing down Margot’s neck and back, ghosting over the scars left there by Mason - long-healed, but never forgotten.

Margot is unselfconscious of the marks, arching into Alana’s hand like a cat as she bites at her collarbone, gentle nips that belie the same hunger that brought Alana into her bed the first time. “You’re so beautiful,” Alana murmurs when Margot’s mouth returns to hers, wraps her arms around Margot’s back again, pulls them together, her skin against Alana’s.

Margot sighs imperceptibly, shifting until her nipples rub over Alana’s, humming when Alana’s head falls back. “So are you.” They stay there for a moment, pressed forehead-to-forehead, and Alana reaches down to Margot’s hips, sliding a hand under the lace of Margot’s waistband, squeezing her bottom.

Margot’s breath catches, and she cants her hips up slightly, giving Alana room to slide her hand around to the front of her, studiously avoiding the long scar on her lower belly, sliding between her legs. Margot is wet already, slick clinging to the neatly-groomed hair between her legs, and Alana presses a single finger between her lips, laying it flat between her folds, sliding it over once, twice, wetting her fingers before she spreads Margot apart to circle her middle finger over Margot’s clit.

Margot shudders a sigh, body tensing, the line of her back shifting as she angles her hips against Alana’s finger, legs spreading a little to give Alana better access.

Alana moves slowly, teasing over Margot’s clit until she can almost feel Margot throbbing against her. Margot stays quiet, but the intensity of her breathing and the way she leans harder on her hands, fingers tightening in the sheets on either side of Alana’s shoulders, say more than words could. She presses a little harder, moves a little faster, and when Margot sighs in something that might be relief and spreads her legs a little wider, Alana slips a finger inside her.

“ _God, yes_ ,” Margot whispers hoarsely, locking eyes with Alana for a moment, pupils blown to black and hairline glittering with beading sweat in the soft pinkness of the bedroom light. Alana surges up to kiss her, knocking teeth against teeth as Margot responds to urgency with her own fervor, and it takes them a moment to determine whose head turns in which direction, but then they’re entangled in a fierce kiss and Alana is shivering her fingers against Margot in a rapidfire rhythim.

The angle is awkward and Alana’s wrist starts to hurt as she keeps up the speed, but stopping now is out of the question. Margot’s breath is coming in soft, breathy whines now, little moans that she stifles with her lip caught between her teeth as she bears down on Alana’s hand. It doesn’t help the awkward angle, and Alana can feel the heel of her hand cramping, but she adds a second finger, bearing up to meet Margot’s pressure, giving it to her just as hard as she needs it.

When Margot comes, it is with a tiny cry more like a yelp, a whimper between gritted teeth that turns into a shivery whine as she drops her head, sinking onto her elbows and panting. Alana stays still for a moment until the last contractions no longer flutter around her hand, and then extricates herself. She’s slick to the wrist with Margot’s arousal, and she can feel heat pooling between her own legs as she brings her hand to her mouth, tasting Margot salty-sweet on her skin.

Margot has flopped back onto her side, rolling off Alana while she catches her breath, but Alana is still licking off her fingers when she has recovered enough to reciprocate. Her hands slide over Alana’s breasts, down her stomach, pausing on the waistband of her shorts. Unlike Alana, she takes the time to tug them down, letting them catch around Alana’s ankles before she slides her hand back up Alana’s leg - calf, the back of her knee, thigh...the place where her leg joins her body.

Her fingers slip against Alana’s skin and it’s not until then that Alana realizes how wet she is. “Goodness,” Margot whispers, voice teasing. “I guess I won’t keep you waiting any longer.”

“Keep me waiting as long as you want.” Alana laughs shakily, extricating one foot from her shorts so she can spread her legs wider. Margot rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow, and smiles down at her.

“Not too much longer, or we won’t get any sleep,” she answers, pressing her thumb down against Alana’s clit.

It’s funny (Alana thinks when she’s not in the middle of sex) how the passage of time changes when you’re completely focused on the feel of your body. She’s not sure how long Margot touches her, counting the moments in the ways Margot changes how she’s rubbing Alana, or the sudden awareness of a finger pressing inside her. It’s one of the few times she gets out of her own head, when she’s fully engulfed in sensation as Margot nips at her collarbone and twists a third finger inside her. She’s mindful to keep her voice down, lest they wake Morgan, but other than that she simply...lets Margot take control, relaxing against her hand while Margot plays her like an instrument, deliberate and focused.

Margot stifles a low groan as she slips her pinky in, and any other time, Alana would have told her not to stop, to keep going, to press, as long and slow and relentless as she needed to, until her hand was fully inside and Alana trembling with the intensity of it. But now is not the time - they both need to sleep more than they need to spend an hour on fisting. Next time, maybe. This time, all that matters is Margot’s four fingers inside her, Margot’s thumb on her clit, the sudden crook against her g-spot, pressure hard and fast and intense while Margot bites her lip, staring down at her with a gaze that is somehow both distant and laser-focused. Her world narrows to the slip, the stretch, the thrumming heat of an orgasm that is simultaneously too far away and too close to last long enough to satisfy her.

When she comes, it is nearly silent - a violent shudder against Margot’s hand and something like a whimper, tremors washing over her in waves of pleasure. Margot doesn’t stop until it’s almost too much and Alana’s legs are shaking, eyes screwed shut with tears pricking at the corners from the intensity. It is so good - it is always _so good_ with her.

“Margot,” she whispers, closing shaking fingers around her wrist, and Margot stops, eyes trained on Alana, the distance gone from her gaze, expression one of fondness, of utmost _love_ . Alana smiles at her, cups her cheek in one hand, mouths _my wife_ as she pulls her down for a kiss.

“I love you,” she breathes.

“I love you too,” Margot answers. She withdraws her fingers and reaches for the wipes they keep on the bedside table. Alana relaxes into the bed while Margot cleans her up, struck for the umpteenth time by the soft intimacy of such a practical gesture. A mark of thoughtfulness and stability - an indicator of a healthy relationship. The tiny part of her mind that overanalyzes all of her actions settles, contented. Margot helps her back into her pajama shorts and flops down behind her, pulling the blankets back over them both before the chill can set into sweat-prickled skin.

“I’m going to get Morgan a pony next Christmas,” she murmurs in her ear, and Alana sighs, too contented to argue, too sleepy to agree.


End file.
